Tribute Poems for Stephen Gardner

Raking

For Stephen L. Gardner

To clear this land could take months.
Readying for winter, so leaves won’t freeze

then mold in the thaw of spring, I row

through this backyard pushing piles

large as my car street-side. Red-browns

on top, wet-black underneath, heavier

than they ought to be. Trees are empty,

even of birds. Shoulders tighten, burn;

palms tingle in spots sure to whiten, peel,

leave skin rich-pink and ripe to air like grass

pale beneath leaves: newborn and dying

together. In this place, this half-worked

yard of bare oak and splaying dogwood,  

everything speaks your distant and holy

language: glass chimes clink, catch sun,

dazzle bark with bending light. A ribbon

of blackbirds finds wind, glides away.

by Jannette Giles